Stardust and Remembrance
by AgentNerd
Summary: "He takes her hand in his, and it feels like coming home." Nonspecific Doctor.


The Doctor sees when she draws the blanket up slightly as if to hide herself from him when he enters, and he sees the slight color of embarrassment flush up into her pale cheeks for a few, brief seconds when he smiles at her, but he doesn't understand. He doesn't understand that on the few occasions that she's looked into the mirror recently, she's seen herself looking into the face of a weak, sick, weary old woman. That she's stopped looking in the mirror altogether because she hates what she's become.

He doesn't understand, because when he sees her, he sees his Sarah Jane. His beautiful, headstrong Sarah, with the same insatiable curiosity and adventurous spirit that he'd first seen in her so many years ago.

He crosses the room in a few long strides and comes to sit in the chair that has been purposely placed next to her bedside. He takes her hand in his, and it feels like coming home.

With a flash of his sonic screwdriver, he places the entirety of the universe onto her ceiling—a new setting he programmed just for her—and together their minds float among the stars. He points out every galaxy that they've ever passed through, every planet they've ever explored. With every celestial body, he starts to remind her of the adventure they've had there; but she cuts him off and tells them all to him instead, reminiscing in soft, fond tones. And as she pours through memories and gazes upward in wonder, he can't help but gaze at her. Because though it has been forty years, he realizes that she hasn't forgotten a single detail.

And oh, as he missed her smile.

Her smile, filled with warmth and sincerity. It's small at first, a slight turn at the corners of her lips, but as she goes deeper and deeper into her tales it grows bigger and bigger. Soon she's grinning, and her eyes are still filled with stardust even after all these years—they'd never dimmed, never faded or grown tired with the world. He's had so many assistants, companions, and friends; but when he looks at her he thinks that she's the most remarkable one of them all.

When she runs out of adventures that they've shared together, he tells her of all the other incredible things out there. Of moons made of bright green crystal, and planets populated with people that communicate solely by whistling. Of stars that burn cold, and eclipses that last for five-hundred years. When he can talk no more, he looks over to find that she has fallen asleep. He's never seen her look so young and at peace.

The stars flicker out and leave them in darkness, save for the pale moonlight that filters in through a part in the curtains. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and just holds her hand, putting all his being into remembering how it feels. It's warm and soft, and even while sleeping her fingers reflexively curl around his. Oh, how many times has he grabbed her hand and pulled her off to new adventures? Or clasped his fingers around hers and run together from villains, from gunfire, from the world? He never wants to forget the sensation of holding her hand. He knows he never will.

It seems like an eternity that he sits there in the silence beside her, but eventually, he lets go. He slowly stands and bends over her, and he presses a chaste kiss to her forehead.

He can hardly find the power to walk away, but he makes it to the door and twists the handle. He turns to leave, and even in her dreams she can hear the four words that he says, barely louder than a whisper,

"Goodbye, Sarah Jane Smith."

**I wrote this a while ago now, and for the life of me I cannot remember which Doctor I had in mind for this story. I honestly can see almost every single one of them in this situation—in my mind, it doesn't matter which regeneration he is, the Doctor will always **_**(cough*love*cough) **_**have a soft spot for Sarah Jane.**

**But I'm honestly curious, and if you review for nothing else, I'd really love to know which Doctor you saw as you read.**


End file.
